what kind of man loves like this
by coltsandbows
Summary: The hunter was edging himself out slowly, putting more and more distance between them. Rick knew that, and he felt helpless, like there was nothing he could do to bring Daryl back to them, back to him. He knew that the archer was hurting, that he lost something - someone - and he wasn't coping well with the grief. Rick had to do something, he knew that. Had to find a way to bring D
1. to be alone

Rick stood in the middle of the bathroom, feet bare on the tiles, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He lifted a hand up to the mirror - for the second time that day, _and probably not the last_ \- and he set it upon the glass, pressing his palm against it flatly, his fingers spreading apart slowly.

The steam from his second hot shower that day had fogged up the mirror, warping his reflection, making the face that stared back at Rick almost completely unrecognisable. He wiped away some of the residue that the steam had left behind, clearing away a patch, then another, until the entire mirror was almost clear and clean, Rick's reflection becoming more and more visible with each swipe of his hand.

He squinted, narrowing his eyes as he leant closer, closer.

A man stared back at Rick with hard blue eyes. He was a stranger. Rick lifted a hand to his face, and ran the tips of his fingers under his jaw, then across cleanly shaven cheeks, tentatively exploring the area. _This is me, this is still me_, he told himself, dropping his hand away. Rick gripped the edge of the basin tightly, knuckles turning white from the sheer force of his grip.

He lowered his head, resting his chin on his chest. Damp hair fell around his face like a curtain, shielding him from the stranger in his reflection. It wasn't the first time that he had felt such unease, when faced with a reflection that he did not recognise. His beard was gone, his hair trimmed, and yet he still felt as though he were a stranger, as though he were inhabiting a different body.

_You're not a killer._

Rick's head snapped up suddenly. He released his vice-like grip on the basin, and glanced up at his reflection, eyes narrowed, lips pursed together tightly. He knew that voice, those words. There was a feeling of unease - set deep in his bones - that he couldn't shake. He was completely, entirely alone, half-naked in a steamy bathroom, and yet it felt as though someone was with him, as though she were right beside him.

Lori.

The words came again, softer that time. _You're not a killer_.

"I am."

Rick lifted a hand to the mirror again, wiping away any remnants of fog that lingered. He cleared the mirror, and stared back at himself once more, chin raised, head tilted to the side ever so slightly. His eyes skimmed over the stranger that stood before him - over the broad, lean shoulders. The scattering of scars, and colourful bruises that adorned his skin. His skin had been ripped open by bullets and blades, but not teeth, _not yet _\- and he only felt a flicker of recognition.

_You're not a killer and I know that. I know that._

He staggered back from the basin, glancing around in confusion. There was a tremor to his voice when he answered, hands balled into fists by his side, nails digging crescent moons into the centre of his palms. "I am what I am," he said, shaking his head. "But you, you're not here. You can't be."

Lori's voice had faded out to almost nothing. Her words reverberated around his skull. _Do whatever you gotta do to keep this group safe and do it with a clear conscience. Not for one second do I think there is malice in your heart. You're not a killer._

Rick winced, and nearly flinched away from the words.

A beat passed, and there was nothing, just deafening silence. Rick ran a hand over his face, then brushed the wet curls out of his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh as he slumped against the far wall, closing his eyes for a moment. Faintly, he could hear chatter from downstairs - the sound of distant laughter, echoing throughout the halls of the house, set Rick on edge, making something sharp twist in his gut - but that was it.

The sound of her voice was unexpected; it rattled him. He hadn't heard it in months, hadn't thought of her in weeks. Rick leant his head back against the wall, eyes still crammed shut, hands still clenched into fists. It wasn't until he felt a wetness between his fingers that he opened his eyes, peering down at both of his hands. The skin was cracked open, torn from how harshly his fingernails dug into the skin.

He belatedly uncurled his fists, stretching his fingers. Blood dripped down the spaces between his fingers.

It was a rich, dark red, that got under his nails like dirt. He rushed to the sink, fumbling with the silver tap, smearing blood over the bone-white basin. Rick held his hands under the steady flow of water, scrubbing at his skin roughly with blunt nails. He scratched away dried blood. Rinsed the fresh blood off of his hands, transfixed by the sight of it as it swirled around the sink, turning pink before it disappeared down the drain.

The sound of Glenn's voice from the opposite side of the door had Rick fumbling for the tap again. He switched it off, and wiped his hands off on his towel, unthinking. "Just because you're a cop again doesn't mean you get to use up all the hot water." the other man called; voice jovial, light. "_Come on_. Quit hogging the shower." he whined. "I get it. You want to clean up all nice so you can show off in your Sheriff's uniform. Just hurry up, Clint Eastwood."

* * *

The uniform felt too tight. It clung to Rick's skin, in a way that was almost suffocating, despite the fact that the clothes hung loosely from his lean frame. Wearing it felt wrong, as though he weren't deserving of it, and perhaps he wasn't. Not now. He wasn't the Rick Grimes that he used to be; that man was a ghost, lost to him now.

Rick gripped the bannister tightly, forgetting the torn flesh in the middle of his palm. He lingered in the hallway, just outside the living room. The faint sound of chatter had gradually gotten louder as he approached, smiling to himself at the sound of Carl's laughter ringing out into the night. Rick stepped into view, instinctively skimming the room in search of both of his children. He heard Michonne's voice before he saw her.

"You clean up good, Sheriff."

Rick smiled thinly, fingertips absent-mindedly brushing over the open wounds on the inside of his hand.

"Shower's free." he replied.

"Good to know. Might go brush my teeth for the thirtieth time today." Michonne said, smiling slowly, easily.

His heart clenched at that. She wanted this; a chance, a life. They all did, of course. But he could see the fear in her eyes - fear of losing this, losing her mind, losing her family - and he saw the desperation, too. The desperation to cling onto every little good thing that came your way, regardless of how big or small it was.

Rick glanced away, but looked back suddenly, the light catching on Michonne's necklace; the glint of the golden _A_ drew his gaze in. He swallowed thickly, and averted his eyes. He always meant to ask, always meant to _try_, but couldn't bring himself to form the words. It was her badge, marking love and loss. She clutched the necklace sometimes, when she thought no one was watching. Her lower lip would quiver, and her hands trembled.

He couldn't bring himself to ask.

She had her necklace, and he had his wedding ring. Her gaze would stray every now and again, lingering on the silver band on his finger. She knew, of course. They all knew. But she didn't pry, didn't ask, only watched on with a mix of pity and grief in her clouded eyes. Rick touched his wedding band now, out of habit.

"Hopefully mine looks as good on me as yours does on you." she said.

He frowned, her words not making sense for a moment. _Oh_. He ran a hand down the front of his chest, smoothing out non-existent wrinkle. It was out of habit. He fiddled with his tie, brushed out the wrinkles in his shirt, because he had to do something, had to do something with his hands. Rick wasn't sure when it started, but he just couldn't keep still, no matter how hard he tried to.

"Navy was never my color." Michonne continued.

"Yeah. I'm sure it'll look terrible on you."

Rick glanced over the room once more, doing a mental tally of who was there, and who wasn't. Everyone except Daryl, of course. Carl was sitting at a table across from Noah; the two were playing some sort of card game. Abraham and Rosita were in the farthest corner of the room, huddled together, while Tara and Eugene were sitting side by side on the floor. Sasha was by the window, staring out of it.

Guilt struck Rick in the chest, hard. He wanted to say something to her, but knew that no words would make up for her loss.

The rest of the group were scattered across the room - some sitting, some standing, some curling up on the couch under thick woollen blankets - but the hunter was nowhere in sight. Rick looked back to Michonne slowly. As though she had sensed his thoughts, Michonne nodded towards the porch. Rick's gaze flicked up and towards the door.

"He's out there."

"Why?" Rick asked, as though it were that simple.

"He wants to be alone. I think it's too much for him."

Rick dropped his head, and looked away from the front door. "We have to make it work, right? That's what you said. And I see that now."

"Yeah, we do." Michonne said, smiling brightly. "And we will. Daryl will come around. He always does."

The hunter was edging himself out slowly, putting more and more distance between them. Rick knew that, and he felt helpless, like there was nothing he could do to bring Daryl back to them, back to _him_. He knew that the archer was hurting, that he lost something - _someone _\- and he wasn't coping well with the grief. Rick had to do something, he knew that. Had to find a way to bring Daryl back.

"Go," Michonne's voice startled Rick, dragging him away from his thoughts.

Rick rubbed at his forehead, looking back up at Michonne. "He wants to be alone."

"Maybe. Maybe he does want that. All I'm saying is you should talk to him."

"Why? What makes you think he'll listen to me?"

Michonne seemed to hesitate. "It's you, Rick."

"I don't - I don't know what that means."

"It means it's _you_. It's always been you, when it comes to Daryl."

Rick nodded, and tried not to dwell on her words. He wasn't quite sure what she meant by it - by saying, _it's you, Rick. It's always been you, when it comes to Daryl _\- he couldn't linger on it though, couldn't toss it over in his mind, not now, he couldn't afford to. Daryl rarely relied on him, but in moments of vulnerability, he would lean on Rick. Lately, Rick felt as though he was asking far too much of Daryl. The hunter carried enough weight on his shoulders; he didn't need Rick's burdens.

* * *

"Guess it's official now," came Daryl's voice, as Rick stepped out onto the dimly lit porch. There was a cigarette propped between the archer's lips, dangling as he spoke. Rick let a moment pass, before taking a slow step closer. Daryl's figure was shadowed in darkness, with Rick only able to make out his outline, the shape of his body, the lit cigarette that burnt orange as he drew back on it.

Rick slowed to a halt, stopping just inches away from Daryl. "Yeah, I guess it is."

"Never thought I'd see you in a uniform again." Daryl scoffed, looking away. He plucked the cigarette from between his lips, and held it between his forefinger and thumb. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "Ain't gonna be much crime to fight 'round these parts, Sheriff."

"I'm not - nothing's changed, Daryl. Not between us."

Daryl looked up at Rick from underneath dark lashes, shadows still cast upon his face. He didn't look convinced.

"Nothing has to change," Rick ducked his head, hoping to get a better look into Daryl's eyes. "It doesn't have to. I'm not your Sheriff."

The archer said nothing, just scoffed, _again_, and looked away.

"I'm just playing my part, Daryl. That's all."

"That's all it is, huh? A part?"

Daryl was leaning against the railing, his back against a beam. Rick moved to stand next to him, but looked out at the night, and up at the stars, instead. They were close, shoulders almost brushing, but Rick couldn't help but feel like there was distance between them. Rick sighed, and ran a hand over his face, turning to Daryl.

"We need this place." he said bluntly.

"Ain't gonna pretend that I'm somethin I ain't."

"They look at us, Daryl, and they see outsiders."

"That's 'cause we are." he pushed himself off of the railing abruptly, and lifted the cigarette to his mouth, stepping away from Rick.

"We found somethin good, Daryl." Rick sighed, tracking the archer's movements. "We need to make them feel safe. Like we're not threats."

Daryl spun around sharply, advancing on Rick. "I ain't gotta do shit, _Officer. _It ain't on me. You wanna make 'em feel safe? Go ahead, cause it sure don't bother me either way. I said it already," he continued, exhaling silver smoke between them. "I ain't gonna pretend that I'm somethin I ain't. Never had to do it before. Ain't gonna start now."

"I'm not askin that of you, Daryl."

He was invading Rick's personal space, crowding him against the railing. "What doya want from me?"

Rick faltered. He wasn't quite sure _what_ he was asking of Daryl, if he would be asking too much. All he knew was that he wanted Daryl around, and that he missed him when he wasn't. Rick couldn't voice that though, not to Daryl. Instead, he sighed, and leant back further into the railing. That did little to put distance between them; Daryl was merely inches away from him, staring Rick down with clouded blue eyes.

"I don't know." Rick murmured.

_Tell me you won't leave._

Daryl started to retreat, taking a deliberate step back. Rick fought the urge to reach out, to keep Daryl there, with him.

He knew it would be a mistake, to touch Daryl. Rick was aware of Daryl's past, of the scars that marked his skin. It had to be Daryl; he had to be the one to initiate contact. And he would, every now and then. A hand on Rick's shoulder, a pat on his stomach, a shoulder brushing against his own. Brief, fleeting touches, that were so light, so rare, and Rick had grown to cherish them.

As much as he wanted to grab hold of Daryl, he knew that it would be a mistake - he could see the tension in the taut line of Daryl's shoulders, see the way his lips were pulled tight, his eyes almost _cold_ \- so, Rick stayed where he was, and simply watched on as Daryl took another step back, and then other, throwing his cigarette down to the ground. He crushed it out with his heel, eyes still on Rick.

"Lemme know when you figure out what you want, Officer."

Rick watched Daryl's retreating figure, as he returned inside the house, letting the door swing shut loudly behind him. Rick sighed, and ran a hand over his face, running over Daryl's words in his mind. He wasn't sure _what_ he wanted, but he knew that he couldn't stand the thought of losing Daryl. He wanted Daryl around, wanted him safe, and close, as close as he could have him. Rick wasn't sure what that mean, he wasn't sure if he would have time to figure it out. All he knew was that Daryl was lost, and Rick had to give him a reason to stay.

* * *

**AN:** This is my first time posting in this fandom, so I'm really nervous. Rickyl is everything to me, so I hope you enjoyed this. The title is inspired by Florence + The Machine's song 'What Kind Of Man'.

For anyone wondering why Daryl's acting this way, it's because he's worried that he doesn't fit into this new life. He doesn't have a place inside the walls of the ASZ, but he knows his place outside. Rick has resumed his pre-apocalypse role of being a 'Sheriff' / 'Officer' and Daryl's concerned that he's going to revert back to being the 'outsider' of the group, like he was in parts of season one and two.

Rick just wants Daryl near him, but doesn't quite understand why.


	2. don't try to follow me

The prison fence had crumbled so easily, bending, breaking in half under the weight of a tank and dozens of walkers. The walls of the safe zone were tall and sturdy, towering above Rick as he approached them. He waited for the gate to open, listened to the metallic groan as it finally gave way. Rick stepped out into the unknown, without looking back.

He followed the fresh tracks made on the damp ground. He wasn't as skilled as Daryl was, but he at least knew the basics. Knew the difference between human imprints on the ground, and the markings of walkers - they tended to be sloppier, less defined. Rick pressed forward.

It was eerily quiet out - something he wasn't used to, not after living _that_ close to the dead, not after hearing them gnaw at the prison fences, the metal fence digging into their skin - and it was too still, too undisturbed. _This_ was new. For a moment, it felt like he was the only one left, the last of the living. A pang of fear hit Rick. He knew he wasn't, but still, it unnerved him.

There was a rustle up ahead that had Rick immediately reaching for his holstered weapon.

He pulled the gun free, and raised it, stalking forward, chasing after the sound. It stopped, suddenly. Rick halted, glancing over his shoulder, checking, always on alert. Then he continued forward, slowly, careful not to draw too much attention to himself. He heard the familiar groan, and sprung into action, rounding the tall tree to find the walker on the ground.

There was an arrow in its neck, another in its jaw. It clawed at the air uselessly. _Daryl wouldn't be far then_, Rick thought.

Rick waited a moment, but there was no sign of the hunter. He raised his gun, and fired. A bullet to the brain stopped the walker from groaning. But it was too loud, he knew that as soon as he had fired. The sound of the gun going off would surely only bring in more. Sighing, Rick stepped closer to the decaying body. He pulled the first arrow free from the walker, and wiping it on the ground.

The distinctive crunch of boots on the ground had Rick glancing up. The hunter looked less than pleased, as he reached Rick's side, retrieving the second arrow himself. He wiped it on the ground also, before snatching the first arrow from Rick's outstretched hand without so much as a grunt, before he turned away.

"You're still pissed." Rick observed, sighing.

"Carol's waiting up ahead." Daryl answered, his back to Rick. "Said you wanted to talk. Better get going then."

Rick reached out, but stopped himself from touching Daryl's arm. "It doesn't have to be like this. I don't know why it is."

The archer seemed to hesitate, like he was considering answering Rick. Instead, he started to walk off in the direction he had came, calling back over his shoulder at Rick, "Come on. Don't got all day to waste." Daryl said. Rick couldn't shake the feeling that he had wanted to say something more. Sighing, Rick trudged after him, holstering his gun.

Finding the house wasn't a difficult task, seeing as Rick had stopped by that same spot to dispose of his gun. They both knew the way, keeping quiet for most of the journey there. Rick made the occasional comment - hoping to draw Daryl out of his shell - but the hunter dug his heels in, and barely gave Rick more than a grunt, or a nod. It was pointless, Rick realized. He eventually stopped chasing, and fell into step beside Daryl quietly.

Carol was standing in the clearing, near the pile of junk where Rick had ditched his gun. They walked towards her, coming to a slow halt just a few steps away. "We have to take it." came Carol's first words. "These people are weak. They don't know what's out there."

"It doesn't have to come to that - not yet - but we still need to be alert." Rick replied, tilting his head to the side.

"They took our weapons. You have your gun," Carol continued, as though she hadn't even heard Rick speak. "But that's not enough though."

"Enough for what?" Daryl asked quietly.

"Enough to defend ourselves, if it comes down it." she answered.

"Defend ourselves against what? You seen the people in there? They ain't exactly threats."

Rick's hand moved instinctively to his holstered gun, fingers brushing against metal. He knew that these people weren't like the cannibals, or the claimers, but that didn't mean that they were inherently good, that they were to trusted without a second thought. Rick wouldn't allow his family to be kept in cages, like animals. He wouldn't allow them to be lined up at a chopping block, again, waiting to be slaughtered.

They needed this place, and the life it offered.

"Not yet." Carol said suddenly. "We have to be prepared for whatever comes our way."

"I know," Rick sighed. "But we have to try to make it work. Taking this place - it's our last resort."

Carol folded her arms across her chest. "We need this place, Rick. Your children need a home to grow up in."

Something sharp twisted in Rick's gut, at her words. He knew that. Already knew that they needed this, a life, a home, a chance. Judith was so small, so fragile. She couldn't be raised on the road, in the wild. Carl deserved this, after all he had lost. He needed stability, and a relatively normal life. Rick would give that to them, regardless of what it cost him.

"They'll have a home. I'll make sure of it." Rick answered belatedly, meeting Carol's steel blue gaze. She was a hardened woman now - they were all harder now, colder, it couldn't be helped - but there was warmth in her eyes when she spoke of Judith, and of Carl. "We need weapons. Guns, blades, whatever we can find. We use it. Doesn't matter if it-"

Daryl was moving, suddenly. His bow at the ready, poised to fire.

Rick followed Daryl's line of sight, and freed his gun from the holster. There was a lone walker approaching, slowly. Trudging forward. Rick fired before Daryl did, taking it down in one swift shot to the head. He wasn't sure why Daryl was moving, walking towards the fallen walker. Rick trailed behind curiously.

"Think that means somethin?" Daryl asked, looking up at Rick. He was kneeling down by the walker, pointing to its head.

The letter _W_ had been jaggedly carved into its forehead. Rick felt ill, wondering whether that had happened before or after it had turned. It was deep. A scar. Rick looked to Daryl, at a loss. He had no answers. _Nothing_. "Probably means nothing." he managed weakly, not convincing either of them._  
_

"You ever seen anythin like that before? Cause I sure haven't. It's gotta mean somethin."

"Maybe it means we're lucky to be behind those walls." Carol interjected.

Rick turned away. He knew that they were lucky - luckier than most - but they couldn't get complacent, couldn't rely solely on luck. They were safe behind those walls, safer than they were out here, but that didn't mean it would stay that way, that they would always be safe, out of harms way. "We don't know what this means, or who did it. We'll have to be careful. Take more precautions."

"Like what?"

"We'll raid the armoury."

* * *

"Really think that's necessary?" Daryl asked, once Carol was gone. She had glanced between them, smiling thinly, before excusing herself. _Those cookies won't bake themselves_, she had said, turning away suddenly. Rick's eyes were glued to the back of her floral sweater; to the crisp brown leaves on the floor; to the pile of junk near the deserted house; the blender where he had stashed the gun. His eyes were anywhere _but_ on Daryl.

He could feel the disapproval radiating off of the other man, and didn't wish to meet those steely blue eyes just yet.

"I don't see that we have much of a choice." he answered belatedly, scratching at his jaw.

"Don't think we need to use guns on 'em."

Rick's head snapped up suddenly. He met Daryl's gaze. "I'm just trying to protect my family. My children. That's all I'm trying to do."

The archer chewed on the edge of a blunt nail, tearing at it with his teeth. "Mhm. I know."

"Do you?" Rick asked, tilting his head to the side. "I'm not the enemy here, Daryl."

"Ain't never said that."

"But you think it."

There was a moment of hesitation, on Daryl's part. He almost looked hurt, maybe. Mostly just pissed off. His lips drew into a tight, sharp line. His eyes narrowed in on Rick, and then he took a step forward, reminding Rick of the way he had stalked towards him on the porch just a night earlier, something almost predatory about the way he crowded Rick against the porch railings.

"You read minds now, Officer?" he asked.

"I don't, but I wish I did. Would make it a hell of a lot easier to figure out what's going on with you."

Daryl chewed on the edge of a blunt nail. He shrugged, turning his back to Rick momentarily. Rick stepped closer, slowly, knowing that it was always a matter of _pace_ with Daryl, you could never rush things, never move too fast, or you could startle him, piss him off, and he would bolt, nowhere to be found - until he _wanted_ to be found, until he made his way back to them.

It was always Daryl's choice.

"Something's gotten into you." Rick said. "And I don't know if it's this place, or if it's me - if it's something I've done - and that's, well, it's driving me crazy. Daryl, I'm not the enemy. I'm not your enemy. I don't _want_ to hurt these people. I don't want to take this place, but if it comes down to it, if it's a choice between them and us, we're not leaving."

"Don't see that I got much say in the matter."

"That's not true, Daryl. You know it's -"

"Should get back inside, Rick." Daryl interrupted.

It felt like this was the first time in _days_ that Daryl had used his name. Lately, he had been all sharp, biting words - referring to Rick as _Officer Grimes_, or _Sheriff_. Rick knew that Daryl was right, that he had probably been gone too long, that he was supposed to be playing his part, doing the rounds - _fighting crime_, as Daryl called it - and yet here Rick was, following Daryl around like he was looking to start a fight with the archer.

He knew what that meant though, knew that it was Daryl's way of telling him to leave, without having to say the words.

"Got a party to get to, don't you? Got a role to play."

"We all have our parts to play, Daryl." Rick sighed.

"Yeah," Daryl nodded. "Maybe this is mine."

Rick watched Daryl's retreating figure, _again_. There was little he could do, and he knew that. He stood there helplessly, rooted to the spot.

* * *

Rick barely remembered the taste of alcohol - or the warm buzz that slowly came with it.

He was reluctant to join the party, hesitation clear in every step he took across the room, balancing Judith on his hip. The people were pleasant enough, approaching him with tentative smiles and kind words, politely asking about his daughter, his son, their eyes falling on the silver band on his finger as he lifted a glass of whiskey to his lips.

The ring felt heavy on his finger, more so than it usually did. It almost felt like it was _burning_ into his skin at times, a punishment.

_Maybe this is mine_.

Daryl's words still weighed heavy on his mind. Rick sipped from his glass, and tried to keep his mind from wandering elsewhere - wandering to Daryl. He wasn't sure what it was, wasn't sure why he was suddenly so obsessed with finding out why Daryl was behaving the way he was. The archer was always like that; on and off, hot and cold. He had his bad days - they all did, and Rick sympathised with that - and he had his good days, too.

It was different, back then. Daryl smiled a little easier, seemed a little more at ease.

"There a good reason you're hiding all the way over here?" Michonne asked, startling Rick out of his reverie.

And for that, Rick was somewhat grateful. His thoughts seemeed to be occupied with Daryl lately, and he wasn't sure why that was, didn't really want to think about it too hard. So, he turned to Michonne with a thin smile, taking in the sight of her. She was wearing a dress - it was navy, Rick noted, his smile growing.

"You look - _different_." Rick commented.

"That's all you got? I thought you had more game than that."

Rick frowned, and lifted his drink to his lips, tossing it back. "Yeah," he said, belatedly. "I don't - I was never good at that. Complimenting."

She laughed at that - a soft, almost sweet, sound - and Rick was surprised by how much it startled him. It sounded so natural. He wasn't sure how she did it - how any of them did it, how they could be so relaxed- and he didn't know if he ever could do it. She was so comfortable, so at ease. A part of Rick longed to be like that, but another part of him knew that he couldn't get complacent, couldn't risk getting too comfortable.

"You want to tell me why you're all alone?"

"I -" he paused. "It's a lot to take in."

There was pity in her eyes, but he could tell that she understood, that she felt it, too.

"Take as long as you need." she said, her hand on his arm lightly. "It's an adjustment for all of us. At least you made the effort."

Rick downed the rest of his glass, finishing its contents. A warm, honeyed tingle lingered in his veins. Michonne shot a concerned look his way, before he encouraged her to join the party, leaving her to refill his drink, again. Judith was with Jessie, balanced on her hip, and Carl was in the far corner of the room with his friends. Rick filled his glass up with whiskey - almost to the brim - and returned to his post by the window, not even bothering to pretend like he wasn't waiting for someone.

* * *

AN: I'm not really sure what this is, or what I'm doing, but I hope you like it.

I'd also like to thank you all for the feedback! Whether it's a comment, follow, or a favourite, it's super encouraging and I really appreciate it. Getting feedback motivates me to keep going, so thank you!


	3. static waves

Veins honeyed with liquor, Rick stumbled through deserted streets, stopping only to steady himself against a nearby tree.

His head felt heavy, weighed down. His mind raced with thoughts that shouldn't be there, but lingered in the corners of his mind regardless of how hard he tried to shake them. Throughout the night, he had plied himself with enough liquor that he was more than pleasantly buzzed. But he still couldn't seem to forget, couldn't rid Daryl from his mind.

If anything, his thoughts were amplified, like electric currents buzzing through his blood.

Rick pushed himself off of the tree, staggering away, feeling steadier with each step that he took. Perhaps it was the cold, crisp air, that brought some sort of clarity back to his whiskey-addled mind. He continued following the row of houses, unsure of where he was headed, unable to tell the difference - if there even was any - between them.

His shadow was bent out of shape, dancing on the asphalt behind him, following him. It starlted Rick, when he realised the shape didn't belong to him, but to a voice that rung out into the darkness behind him, deepy and husky. He stopped suddenly, fingers twitching by his side. _Rick_, the voice had called, low and curt, almost sounding like a threat. He didn't recognise the voice until it spoke again.

"Goin somewhere?"

"Daryl," Rick drew out his name, tasted the words on his tongue. He turned slowly, angling himself towards Daryl. "You missed the party." he slurred.

"It's over already? Couldn't have been much of a party." came Daryl's languid reply. There was a lit cigarette between his fingers, Rick noticed.

That wasn't the only thing that Rick noticed: the archer had cleaned up, finally giving in to Carol's incessant nagging to bathe, to_ be presentable_, as she called it. She wanted them to blend in, but Daryl wasn't the type to fade away into obscurity - he would never blend in, even if he wanted to. There was too much about Daryl that stood out, like those piercing blue eyes that were currently locked on Rick.

"Thought we'd see you there." Rick said, though he wasn't sure _why_.

Daryl continued to stare, lifting the cigarette to his lips. He inhaled deeply, still staring. Rick wasn't nervous - he had no reason to be - but there was a lingering feeling in the back of his skull, something he couldn't quite place. His eyes raked over Daryl, still unused to the sight of clean skin that wasn't speckled with dirt or blood.

The change of appearance was definitely something.

_Something new_, Rick thought. The tight, sleeveless black shirt was gone, replaced with something that almost looked like plaid, but Rick couldn't be sure, he couldn't make it out in this dull light. Daryl shifted, throwing his cigarette down to the ground, stubbing it out with the heel of his boot. Almost against his will, Rick tracked the movement.

"How was it?" Daryl asked. "The party?" he prompted, when Rick said nothing, still staring at a spot of asphalt near Daryl's feet.

Rick's eyes snapped up. "Would've known, if you were there." he replied. The words tasted strange in his mouth.

"It's better I didn't go."

Silence fell between them, thick and uncomfortable. Daryl dropped his head, and scratched at his chin. The moonlight cast shadows across his face, warping his appearance. It was new to Rick, seeing Daryl like this. They were so used to dirt and sweat, their skin was always clammy and filthy, hair unkempt and messy, clothes stained with blood.

"Why?"

"Just is." Daryl offered no further explanation. His head was still lowered.

Rick didn't pry. He didn't have it in him to press Daryl, to push him, crack him open and pull an explanation out of him.

"Should go home, Rick."

"Why?" Rick repeated, tilting his head to the side curiously, eyes narrowing in on Daryl slightly. Daryl's head was slightly lowered; his eyes looked black in this light, completely engulfed by the shadows.

The archer swallowed, shrugging. It seemed to be a reflex response. "It's gettin cold out." he offered. "Late, too."

"Might have to lead the way home," Rick slurred, almost wincing at how the words tumbled out, sloppy and rushed. "Don't really know where I'm goin."

Daryl scoffed, the hint of a smile on his lips. He nearly looked amused by Rick's current state, shaking his head, and making a small '_tsk'_ under his breath.

"This way." he instructed, his shoulder grazing against Rick's as he passed by, without pausing to see if Rick would follow.

It was the ghost of a touch, barely there, gone as soon as it arrived, but Rick's skin still prickled. Lifting his hand, he touched the area lightly, ghosting over the spot, before glancing up after Daryl's fading figure. Rick dropped his arm away, and moved quickly, stumbling once or twice, as he tried to keep up with Daryl's determined stride.

"Always this slow, old man?" Daryl asked.

"Not always."

Rick instinctively raised a hand to his jaw, half-expecting to feel a thick, coarse beard underneath his fingertips. Instead, they brushed against a cleanly shaven jaw. He smirked at Daryl's words, letting his hand fall away. Daryl continued to lead the way, always a stride or two ahead. Part of Rick wondered why that was, why he seemed intent on putting distance between them.

They weaved between the shadowed houses in silence, treading on soft green grass, leaving empty roads behind them.

"When you didn't show," Rick began. "I started wonderin why that was. Thought you might've left us."

Daryl's expression was mostly shadowed, but Rick could still make out the look of hurt that flashed across his face. He didn't question Daryl's loyalty, not for a second. But he questioned how comfortable Daryl was here. He seemed out of place, struggling to adapt to life behind the walls.

"Came back, didn't I?"

Rick nodded. "You did. Where'd you go?"

"Does it matter? Like I said, I came back. Always will."

"Is that a promise?" he asked, still feeling buzzed. "Sure sounds like a promise, to me."

"Ain't gonna pinky swear," Daryl said, throwing Rick an amused, and slightly baffled, look. "Ain't gonna cross my heart and hope to die either."

"I - well, I wouldn't ask that of you."

"Wouldn't you?"

"Pinky swears are serious business."

Daryl made a noise, something between a scoff and a laugh. Whatever it was, it brought a smile to Rick's face.

"I mean it," Rick said. "They are."

"C'mon. Almost there."

_Home_. Rick silently substituted. They were almost home, though it wasn't home, not yet. Didn't feel like it, as much as Rick didn't want to admit it. It felt strange. They spent so long struggling, barely surviving, sleeping when they could, _where_ they could, side-by-side, or crammed in the back of an abandoned car, finding warmth where they could, if they could.

But this, it felt fragile, and too good to be true, too good to last.

Rick turned a fraction, acutely aware of the walls that loomed over them. They were walking behind the houses now, wedged between rust-colored walls and pristine houses. He knew this track, had followed it before when he was on patrol. Daryl's words startled him out of his reflection.

"Ain't never seen you like this."

"Like what?" Rick asked.

"_Drunk_."

"M'not that drunk."

"Pinky swears are serious business?"

Rick winced, unable to do much else but laugh at himself. "Yeah. I don't know where that came from."

"S'alright," Daryl shrugged. "Ain't like it's a bad side to you."

"I got plenty of those."

Daryl said nothing. He dug his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, bowing his head.

"I don't know where they came from either." Rick confessed.

"Thought you might be a happy drunk," Daryl said, after a beat. "You were, for a second. Talkin 'bout pinky promises and all that. Sounded different."

"Different, how?"

It seemed as though Daryl wanted to say something. He threw Rick a cautious glance, before shrugging, drawing his hands out of his pockets to gesture to the houses up ahead; the last two belonged to them. Rick doubted that he would have been able to find his way back, without Daryl's help. He wasn't _that_ drunk, but he knew the walls better, knew the path, knew how long it took to walk the entire perimeter.

Yet he still struggled finding his way back.

_Home_, he told himself. Back home. The words felt strange as they bounced around his skull, leaving a bitter aftertaste in the back of his throat. They were there soon enough, walking between the two houses as they had done earlier that day, before coming to a halt, as if caught between the two houses. Rick shifted on his feet, and quietly wondered why they had paused.

"Somethin on your mind?" Rick asked, thinking back to the way that Daryl had been with him on the porch, all sharp, bitter words, and biting glances.

There had something else there. It was almost palpable, Rick remembered, curling his fingers around the air by his sides at the memory of it. Tension, maybe. It felt stronger that. Even now, with Daryl standing across from him, head bowed, eyes cast elsewhere, Rick still felt it. That in itself was unnerving. It set him on edge, more so than he already was.

"No more than usual." Daryl said, finally meeting Rick's gaze. He hesitated. "Really think I'd run off without so much as a goodbye?"

"I don't think that. I don't know why I said it."

"Don't know why?" he asked, disbelieving. "Or don't want to say why?"

Rick's jaw twitched. "I'm worried we're losin you. I've seen you these last few weeks, Daryl. Puttin' distance between us."

"Us?" Daryl echoed. "This ain't got nothin to do with you and me, Rick. Got nothin to do with you."

"Sure feels personal to me, Daryl."

"Well, it ain't."

"You want to tell me what last night was about then?" Rick asked, taking a step forward. "The looks you were givin me, Daryl. The things you were sayin. Sure seems personal to me. Feels like I've done somethin to piss you off. I saw somethin different in you." he paused, swallowed over the lump in his throat. "I think I get it."

"Care to clue me in," Daryl said thinly, expression guarded. "Cause I sure don't get it."

"You blame me," Rick said. "For what happened back at Grady. For what happened to Beth."

Daryl's response was almost immediate. He winced, and it was as if the words had caused him actual physical pain. He seemed to crumble in on himself, and a part of Rick regretted even broaching the subject. Daryl looked ready to flee, or pounce, Rick wasn't sure.

"It's not on you, Daryl. But maybe - I think it's on me. I _know_ it's on me. This is how it has to be."

"Ain't about that." he managed, voice tight.

Rick nodded, saying nothing for a moment. He could see the hurt in Daryl's eyes, and averted his gaze to grant him a moment of privacy, if there even was such a thing anymore. They had suffered beside each other for so long, wounds open for all to see. The sound of Maggie's pained sobs still haunted Rick. So much pain, so little privacy. Grief was no longer intimate, it wasn't personal.

"So if it's not about that," Rick murmured slowly, giving Daryl enough time to - well, he wasn't sure. Enough time to run, to put more distance between them. He didn't know. His head was crowded, full of thoughts that shouldn't be there. Rick rubbed at his temple and spared a glance towards the archer. "Then it's about somethin else. Is it this place? Is it _me_?"

Daryl grunted in response, without so much as a look in Rick's direction.

"We're back to this, are we?" he pressed, taking another step forward. Daryl's eyes snapped up at that.

_Got your attention now, do I?_ Rick thought. Something spurred him forward. It had to be the liquor. He wasn't like this around Daryl; he wasn't so easy with his hands and his words, letting them fall from his lips before even considering the meaning behind them, before considering if they even _meant something_, or if it was just the liquor talking.

Before he had a chance to talk, Daryl was moving suddenly, tension rolling off of his body in waves.

"Ain't goin back to _nuthin_." Daryl said, shoulders squared, eyes narrowed. He was stepping into Rick's space, crowding him like he had on the porch.

Rick didn't retreat. Instead, he let Daryl advance on him, standing his ground firmly as Daryl came to a halt, merely inches away from his face. He stayed like that for a moment - for longer than Rick had expected, admittedly - before ripping himself away from Rick, face scrunched up, hands balled into fists by his sides.

"Hey," Rick's hand flew out, grabbing Daryl by the forearm. "Don't do this. Don't walk away."

Whatever fight had been brewing inside of the archer was extinguished; the flames smothered by the simple touch of Rick's hand. Daryl stared at the empty space between them, before his gaze flicked to where Rick's fingers were curled around his arm, fingers brushing against leather. He was fixed on the spot, and Rick almost considered drawing his hand away, but didn't, _couldn't_.

His hand slid down Daryl's arm slowly, winding down, until his fingers were wrapped around Daryl's wrist lightly. Rick sucked in a sharp breath, surprised by the palpable _zap_ he felt when his fingers brushed against Daryl's skin; it was almost like an electric current, passing through contact, from Daryl's wrist to the tips of his fingers.

Rick lifted his head. He was met with sharp blue eyes, and he felt it again - that sharp, sudden rush. Daryl didn't move an inch, not even as Rick moved forward, closing what little distance remained between them. Rick pressed his lips against Daryl's, fingers still laced around the archer's wrist, tightening, and Rick wasn't sure if he was trying to keep Daryl there, keep him close, or if he was anchoring himself to the earth the only way he knew how to: through Daryl.


	4. i will remain

Daryl's lips tasted like bitter smoke and sweet wine, and Rick was losing himself in the moment. He had expected many things of Daryl, but never this, never lips to lips, tentative and hesitant, never Rick's fingers curled around a bony wrist. Rick felt brave, reckless. There was something about the way that Daryl had been looking at him - tonight, the night before, all the ones before that - that instilled such feelings inside Rick.

He wasn't kidding himself; he knew that he was permitted these touches _only_ because Daryl was allowing it.

Though he wasn't exactly responsive, and that had Rick recoiling, drawing away from Daryl. He was shocked by how much he missed the contact. His fingers withdrew from Daryl's skin, his wrist, and his lips broke from Daryl's almost reluctantly. It left him feeling cold, and almost like all of the warmth and courage he once held had been drained from him.

First, he felt reckless. But now, under the pale light of the moon, and under Daryl's unwavering stare, Rick felt foolish.

Daryl, with all his walls built so high, with all the effort he put into hiding and deflecting, was painfully easy to read. It was almost too easy. His expression was open, and he almost looked vulnerable, but his stare was bordering on accusatory. It burnt into Rick's skin.

For a moment, the archer just stared and _stared_, his mouth working soundlessly as he struggled with a response. Rick faintly wondered whether his actions had warranted a punch to the face, and judging by the way that Daryl's jaw locked into a hard line, he guessed that the answer was yes, it did warrant a punch to the face.

"Listen, Daryl," Rick began cautiously. "I didn't-"

"Thought you were a sad drunk, not a handsy one." Daryl said.

Rick lifted a hand to his face, as if to pinch the bridge of his nose, but he aborted the movement and dropped his hand away. Daryl's eyes followed the movement. Rick opened and closed his mouth, unable to form the words he _really_ wanted to say. He couldn't lie to Daryl, couldn't tell him that it was the alcohol, when maybe it wasn't, maybe it was something else.

"That your way of thankin me?"

"For what? For walkin me home safely?" Rick asked, and almost smile. _Almost_.

The look Daryl threw him was enough of a warning. He drew a sharp breath and waited, waited for it to come - whatever _it_ was. A punch, a curse, another sharp, withering look. He just wanted something from Daryl. Any sort of reaction he was willing to give would be enough, but he just jerked away from Rick abruptly,

Daryl shook his head and when he spoke, the words hit Rick as hard as a punch, and they hurt twice as much. "Ain't nobody's bitch. Not even yours, Rick." he said, pausing for a breath. There was something sad, almost defeated, about the way he said that. _Not even yours, Rick._ "And I sure ain't interested in playin house."

"That's not - no, Daryl, that's not what this is." he stammered.

"Should go home, Rick." Daryl said, not quite looking at him. "Ain't gonna be responsible for what happens if you stay."

Rick considered Daryl's words. In his mind, he was already gone - already upstairs, checking on Judith and Carl before settling in for the night. That was the smart option here; it would be cleaner that way, there wouldn't be any of this confusion, or a risk of getting hurt. And yet, Rick lingered. He kept replaying Daryl's words over and _over_ again in his head - _ain't gonna be responsible for what happens if you stay_ \- and Rick couldn't decide if they were a threat or a challenge.

He took it as a challenge.

Daryl raised his head slightly as Rick took a small step closer, then another.

"You were different with me, Daryl. Last night on the porch." Rick murmured. He remembered it only too well; remembered the way Daryl had looked at him, all dark eyes and sharply twisted lips, before he crowded Rick up against the railings, barely inches away from his face, his breath warm on Rick's skin. "Don't say it's not personal, 'cause it sure feels it."

"Said I wasn't playin no damn role." Daryl jutted his chin out. "I ain't like you, Rick. Can't pretend to be somethin I'm not."

Rick stilled, stopping his advance on Daryl. His pause was brief, though. For his blood was buzzing and his lips still tingled from where they had touched Daryl's, and maybe he was crazy or stupid, or _both_, for thinking that Daryl wanted this, wanted him, but there was something dark in Daryl's eyes that had been there on the porch that night and Rick couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself.

He gripped the lapels of Daryl's leather jacket tightly, tugging him closer, _closer._ And there it was - that challenge in Daryl's eyes, the look that dared Rick to prove that he wasn't just playing another role, that he wasn't just drunk and lonely. Rick crushed his mouth against Daryl's, then told himself to be gentle, to slow down, but Daryl's hands were fisting in Rick's hair, pulling so hard it almost hurt.

Rick bit back a groan when Daryl started to respond, his lips moving against Rick's - he wasn't gentle or slow, wasn't even hesitant.

There was something in the way that Daryl kissed back that somehow represented who he was; calloused fingers dug into the back of Rick's neck, pulling him closer, if that was somehow possible. Rick guided them towards the side of the house, urging Daryl back until he was pressed against the wall and Rick was bearing down on him, his lips still locked on Daryl's, still moving against his, or together, he wasn't sure.

Slender hands roamed from the lapels of Daryl's jacket, moving towards his torso, stopping only when Daryl's hand flew out and caught Rick's left one abruptly, his fingers curling tight around Rick's wrist. Rick broke away from the kiss, and it wasn't until that very moment that he realized how heavily he was breathing - how heavily they were both breathing, chests heaving up and down erratically, and Rick couldn't help it, it felt as if his heart was pounding against his chest.

"Shit." Daryl panted, pupils blown wide, lips red and slightly swollen from the kiss.

Rick felt a smile creep over his face, unbidden. He was almost chest to chest with Daryl, with only inches between them, stopping them from being pressed flat against each other. Tempted to erase that distance, Rick leant closer, eager to feel the warmth of Daryl's lips, and the rush that came with being _this_ close. One knee slipped in between Daryl's, and the archer made a small noise at that.

"You told me to figure it out," Rick said. "To figure out what I wanted. What I want. It's this."

Daryl tensed at that, pulling back as Rick moved forward to press their lips together. Something in his jaw twitched.

"Think you better get home," Daryl finally spoke, something closed off in his voice. The walls were back up, and Rick was beginning to wonder if they had ever truly been down to begin with, or if it was just another act. As much as he preached about not being a pretender, Daryl sure did like to act like he felt nothing.

Rick backed off immediately, slipping out of Daryl's reach. He ran a hand over his face, feeling every bit as foolish as he had earlier.

"You had too much to drink," the archer continued. "That's all it is."

"If that's my excuse," Rick asked. What's yours?"

"Ain't makin excuses for myself."

"You kissed me back, Daryl."

"You did it first."

"I wanted to."

"Don't know what you want." Daryl said.

"What, and you do? You got it all figured out? "

Daryl pushed himself off of the wall, without so much as a word. He kept his head bowed as he stepped around Rick, eyes fixed on a spot on the ground. He headed towards the house without so much as another word. Rick stared after him, long after he disappeared inside. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Rick let out a heavy sigh and moved to slump against the side of the house.

Maybe it would have been better for the both of them if Rick had never left his post by the window. If he had just waited and wondered, and didn't act, didn't screw up. Rick _wanted_, but didn't know what it was he longed for. He wanted, but didn't deserve to have, to touch. He told himself to leave it be, to chalk it up to booze and loneliness, but it was more than that. The odd, tight feeling in his chest told him as much.

* * *

The first thing Rick noticed was how quiet it was.

It was hard _not_ to notice, really. Rick swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pushing himself up off of the bed with a sigh. He moved slowly, joints clicking and popping. _This_, he thought, was something he couldn't get used to. Everything felt too still. He swiped his gun off of the nightstand and holstered it before making a beeline for the door, feeling every bit as on edge as he had the very moment they stepped through those gates.

Rick reached for the handle, only to jerk his hand away when the door opened suddenly from the other side. He recoiled as if he had been stung, staggering back. Rick's fingers flexed by his side, clenching and unclenching. He thought about reaching for his gun.

And then Glenn's head popped out from behind the door, and he held his hands up, smiling almost apologetically.

"Easy there, Eastwood." he said, stepping further into the room. "It's just me."

"You checking up on me or something?"

"Or something. Big night last night, huh?"

Rick frowned and scratched at his jaw. "Why do you say that?"

"I-um, because of the party." Glenn nodded. "So. I'll just - yeah."

"Did something happen?" Rick asked, something like panic creeping up into his chest. "Was someone-"

"We're good, Rick. Really. I was just checking in. It's what we do. We check in on each other." Glenn glanced back over his shoulder, out into the hall, then back toward Rick. "I wasn't going to say anything, because Maggie told me not to," he said. "But something seemed off. Last night. She said you're just adjusting, like we all are."

Something in Rick's jaw twitched. He forced a smile. "I think I had too much to drink, that's all."

"That's what Daryl said." Glenn snorted. "He said he found you wandering around on your own. Lucky he found you, right? All these houses look the same, especially at night." a pause. "As nice as this place is, Rick, we need to stay alert. After-" he stopped abruptly, trailing off.

_Terminus_.

It went unspoken between them, and just like that, the memories came rushing back to Rick, unbidden. He set his gun down on a nearby dresser, and turned back to Glenn slowly - and just like that, he was back there, lined up at the trough, and Glenn was _so_ close, he was next in line. Sometimes, when he slept, Rick would dream of Terminus, of what nearly happened to Glenn. He couldn't stop it from playing over and _over_ again on loop.

The sound of the bat cracking Glenn's skull open was enough to wake Rick, most nights. If not, he saw everything that came after; the knife at Glenn's throat, the blood that gushed beneath them, the choked off noises Glenn made, his final breath. Rick looked up at the younger man now, and felt an overwhelming rush of relief flood through his body.

"Hey," Rick said, pointedly meeting Glenn's gaze. "We're not going back to that. I won't let it happen."

"It was _so_ close. Last time. And the time before that. And the time before that, too."

Rick felt his fingers twitch by his side again and it was like they were longing for something - a purpose, maybe. Maybe he needed to be out with his gun, taking down walkers, feeling like he was actually achieving something. Not just wasting away, letting his guard down. _The Prison. The Farm._

"We won't lose this place." Rick said firmly, and shit, he meant it.

But he knew it didn't always work out like that. Even if they had the best intentions, they still lost. Lost and _lost_ until they had nothing left to lose but each other, but even then it was like they hadn't lost enough, so the world kept taking. There were so many bodies piled up in Rick's dreams; so many faces, twisted and distorted. There were voices, too. Screaming and crying, and blaming him; _wh__y, why couldn't you save me?_

A hand on Rick's forearm startled him. Glenn gave him a small smile, but it faded too quickly.

"There's some lunch downstairs, when you're ready." he said, hand falling from Rick's arm as he stepped towards the door.

"Lunch?" Rick frowned. "I slept that long?"

"We didn't want to wake you. You deserved to rest. Maybe just wash up before you come down," he said. "You smell like a bar. No offense."

Rick let out a small laugh. Glenn gave him one last smile before disappearing out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Rick moved towards the pale wooden dresser, resting his hands on either side of it, gripping the edges tightly.

He glanced up at the mirror, half-expecting to find someone else standing in his place. Rick closed his eyes. Too much hit him at once: the sound of a baseball bat cracking against Glenn's skull; Lori's smile through the chain-link fence; the color of Judith's eyes; and then there was Daryl, but he was gone too soon, always seemed to be vanishing just as quickly as he appeared.

Rick's grip loosened on the dresser. He lifted his head slowly and opened his eyes, entire body going rigid when he heard _that_ voice.

_Restitution for your own lack of insight._ _ For failing to see the devil beside you._

He spun around, hands clammy against the cool metal of his gun. The room was empty. Completely bare. Rick lowered his gun, checking that the safety was on before holstering it. Wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, Rick's eyes darted around the room once more. _Empty. Alone. Nothing. _

Rick pinched the bridge of his nose and told himself that it wouldn't happen again, _it wouldn't_. They wouldn't lose it all. He would sooner die before he let that happen. He would bleed and die and do whatever he had to if it meant they could live. Even if that meant living with ghosts and grief, and doing the worst possible things, then that's how it had to be.

* * *

A/N: Apologies for the late update, I've been sick! Hopefully the Rickyl kisses made up for it c:


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